


lost from the start

by Anonymous



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Grooming, Hurt Ian Gallagher, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27530488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: While working security at a strip club, Mickey befriends a hot bartender but is less fond of the hot bartender’s asshole boyfriend.[Unlikely to be finished - apologies]
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 150
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Update: Apologies, this is now unlikely to be finished and will remain a WIP so comments have been turned off. Thank you to everyone who's been reading for the support so far and I'm very sorry for the lack of resolution.
> 
> previous note:  
> No explicit rape/noncon but some brief instances of (and references to) attempted sexual assault, plus some extremely dubious consent so I figured better safe than sorry re. the tags.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

On the other end of the line, Mickey hears Scott’s laughter in response and he narrows his eyes. “You think I’m joking, motherfucker?”

“Good evening to you too, Milkovich,” Scott says with a sigh. “Can’t say I’d recommend murdering your parole officer. Tends to not go down well with the review board.”

“Yeah?” Mickey says, pacing the width of the alley. “Well, maybe my asshole of a parole officer shouldn’t be making me work security at some fuckin’ queerbo strip joint. Just as a for instance.”

“That’s what this is about?” The amused rumble hasn’t left Scott’s voice. Mickey really wants to punch him. “Milkovich, you already burned through three jobs in the last two weeks. Fairy Tail’s all I had left. The pay’s decent and most nights you get to beat people up — I figured it’d be perfect for you.”

“Oh, yeah, real perfect,” Mickey says sarcastically. “I love watching old queens jerk it to sweaty twinks all night. Doesn’t make me want to break anyone’s fingers at all.”

“You know you’re gay too, right?” Scott points out. “Or have I been fucking the wrong parolee this whole time?”

“Fuck you,” Mickey says, kicking out at the corner of a dumpster.

“Yeah, I figured,” Scott says, laughing again. “Look, I gotta go, Milkovich. Just do the fuckin’ job, yeah? And pay one of the strippers to blow you if you’re that on edge.”

“I swear to fucking god-”

The line goes dead before he can finish and Mickey kicks the dumpster again with a huff of frustration. 

“Bad day, huh?”

He’s riled up enough that he almost decks the source of the voice from behind him but when he turns to see a hot redhead leaning against the door, he’s suddenly grateful for his restraint. 

“Something like that,” he mutters, lighting up a cigarette. The nicotine doesn’t do much to help but at least it’s something to do with his hands other than driving across town and choking Scott out. “You looking for a smoke?”

The redhead shakes his head with a smile. “Trying to quit. My boyfriend hates the smell of my breath after.”

The mention of a boyfriend is a setback to Mickey’s goals of a hook-up but not an insurmountable one. 

“Fuck him,” he says with a shrug. “Ain’t up to him what you put in your mouth.”

The redhead laughs at that and moves down to sit on the concrete steps leading down from the club as Mickey continues to pace back and forth. “Real smooth, buddy.”

Mickey shrugs, unfazed. “So what’re you doing out here if you’re not having a smoke?”

“Fresh air.”

Mickey tilts his head. “Next to a dumpster?”

The redhead smiles again. “Okay, different air. Sometimes you need a change from the smell of jizz and booze.”

“I hear that,” Mickey says with sympathy. He stops pacing, leaning against the wall opposite the steps, and gives the redhead a nod of greetings. “Mickey Milkovich. I guess I work security here now.”

“So I heard,” the redhead says. “Ian. I work the bar, mostly.”

“Mostly?” Mickey looks him over, taking in the dark slacks and long-sleeved shirt. “You don’t exactly look dressed for stripping.”

Ian smiles. “Thankfully. I don’t think anyone wants to see that.” 

Before Mickey can point out that actually he’d kind of like to see that, Ian continues, “Just odd jobs. Clean up, waiting tables, finding all the small bills that fell out of someone’s asscrack. The usual.”

Mickey grimaces. “Nice.” He blows out a long breath of smoke and gestures to the mostly-healed bruise over Ian’s eye. “Looks like security here’s been due an upgrade.”

He knows he fucked up as soon as he gets the words out. Ian visibly tenses, his friendly demeanor replaced by one of self-consciousness when his hand darts up to the bruise, but he attempts a strained smile anyway. “Is that what you’re here for? An upgrade?”

“I mostly just want to break some noses,” Mickey admits, cracking his knuckles. “You see any problem cases, send them my way.”

The door swings open behind them as Ian laughs and Mickey straightens up when an older guy with a dark beard peers out. “Hey, asshole, staff only.”

The man arches an eyebrow. “Good thing I own the place then.”

Mickey gulps and Ian scrambles to his feet as he says in Mickey’s defense, “He’s the new security guy. Just started tonight.”

“So cut him some slack?” the man guesses, lips curving in a half-smile. Ian shrugs, embarrassed, but Mickey’s eyes narrow when he moves in closer to the man anyway, who gives Ian’s ass a casual grope.

“I guess at least you’re keeping an eye out,” the man says eventually, to Mickey rather than Ian. He eases past Ian, strolling down the steps and holding a hand out in Mickey’s direction as he flashes him a cool smile. “Rafe Laguerre.”

He’s bigger up close, nearly a full head taller than Mickey, but Mickey just holds his gaze as he shakes his hand. “Mickey Milkovich.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr Milkovich.” His grip tightens slightly before he releases Mickey’s hand. “I take it you and Mr Gallagher have been getting to know each other?”

“Rafe-”

The last name isn’t familiar but the context is clear from Ian’s interruption. He hovers by the still-open door, lip caught between his teeth, and from the way he looks at Rafe, Mickey starts to have doubts about how he acquired that bruise.

“Who, Ian?” Mickey says. “Nah, I just came out for a smoke. I figure a bartender can look after himself, right? Not much use for security there.”

Seemingly satisfied, Rafe returns to the door and squeezes Ian’s shoulder. “I suppose I best let you get back to work then,” he says, wearing that cold smile again. “I’m sure there are plenty of uses elsewhere for security. You too, Ian.”

Ian doesn’t look in Mickey’s direction as he’s shepherded inside and once the door closes, Mickey flicks his cigarette butt across the alley in frustration. It’s not like he gives a fuck that the hot bartender has a shitty boyfriend, not really, but Mickey’s never been good at staying away from things he’s told he can’t have.

Mentally cursing Scott again for hooking him up with this crappy job, he heads back around to the front of the club and tries to put Ian (and Rafe, and that bruise) out of his mind.

————

After working the door for a couple of hours, Mickey’s more than glad for the warmth inside the club when he switches places. It’s not like he finds the strippers particularly appealing — way too much glitter — but as he winds his way through the club to warn off handsy patrons, he keeps an eye on the bar the whole time.

Ian seems relatively shy, at least compared to the rest of the staff working the poles and the tables. He keeps his head down, pours drinks quick and efficiently, and seems to be doing his best to blend into the background while the dancers take the limelight. 

The only time Mickey sees anything out of him except polite smiles is when Rafe stops by. The guy’s like a shark, circling the club all night looking for friends or trouble or prey, but Mickey doesn’t miss the way Ian tenses up every time he swings past, even when he yields for a kiss or a grope.

It’s late in the night when Rafe finally takes Ian with him as he circles past. 

One of the dancers slips in to cover the bar and Mickey finds himself following at a distance as Rafe rests a hand on the back of Ian’s neck to guide him through to the rear of the club. 

Away from the main room, the club is a warren of damp, narrow hallways and Mickey takes more than a few wrong turns before he catches a glimpse of Ian’s hair inside what seems to be an office. 

Mickey follows, quiet and cautious, telling himself it’s just curiosity that’s motivating him as he presses himself against the wall and peers through the half-open door, just close enough to catch what they’re saying.

“-think of the new security guy?”

Ian’s back is to a filing cabinet, with Rafe crowding into his space, and he doesn’t meet Rafe’s eyes as he shrugs. “I- I didn’t really talk to him much. I think he likes to fight — maybe he’ll be good at scaring people off.”

“Yeah?” Rafe asks, and even from his position, Mickey can damn near feel the trap being laid. “Didn’t seem to scare you off, did he?” His hand slides down, cupping Ian through his pants, and Ian closes his eyes when Rafe leans in to kiss his jaw. “I thought we’d been through this, sweetheart.”

“We have,” Ian says quietly. “I just talked to him, that’s it, I swear.”

Rafe’s other hand curls around his throat, forcing Ian to face him as he says, almost sorrowfully, “I wish I believed you.”

“Rafe-”

Before Mickey can even register what’s happening, Rafe takes his hand away from his pants and drives his fist hard into Ian’s stomach. Ian cries out in pain and Rafe steps back smoothly as he drops to his knees, one arm curled across his stomach as he shakes his head. “Please-”

Rafe hits him again, an open-handed slap across the face, and Mickey takes a step forward, hands clenching into fists as he prepares to intervene. 

Ian flinches back when Rafe crouches down in front of him but rather than another blow, Rafe cups his jaw with sympathy as he presses a kiss to his forehead. “Shhh,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. You know how I get when you make me angry. I don’t want to have to throw you back out on the streets, you know that, right?”

Mickey pauses. He would really like to break Rafe’s nose but also doesn’t want to be responsible for Ian losing his job. 

(He barely knows the guy, after all. It’s way too soon for Mickey to be ruining his life.)

Ian nods. “I know. I- I’m sorry.”

That’s apparently what Rafe needed to hear as it earns Ian a soft kiss on the lips in return. “Good boy,” Rafe murmurs, stroking a hand through his hair. “I’m glad you’re learning.”

He pushes himself back to his feet in one smooth movement, ruffling Ian’s hair as he goes, but before Ian can follow, Rafe clicks his tongue. “Ah, ah. While you’re down there…”

Mickey hears the clink of his belt unbuckling and watches Ian’s eyes go wide. “Rafe, someone could see…”

“No-one’s going to be back here at this time,” Rafe says dismissively. “The dancers on shift don’t get a break for another hour at least.” His mouth curves in a cruel smile as he runs his thumb over Ian’s lips, rubbing himself through his underwear with his free hand. “Besides, it’s not like they don't already know what a whore you are." 

Ian's jaw clenches but Rafe just smirks. “Come on now, Ian. You really think there's anyone left in this place that doesn't know you’re a dumb slut who’ll spread their legs for anyone who looks at them twice? Without me here to protect you, they’d be bending you over the bar any chance they got.”

Ian’s cheeks flush scarlet, his gaze not leaving the floor, but Rafe coaxes his head up to face him as he taunts, “C'mon, sweetheart, why don’t you show me a good time? It’s not like anyone can think less of you than they already do.”

Even from the hallway, Mickey can see Ian shiver but when he looks up, there’s a hopefulness in his eyes which turns Mickey’s stomach. “Whatever you want.”

Rafe grins. Working his already-hard cock free from his pants, he doesn’t take him more than a moment to push the head past Ian’s parted lips with a groan of satisfaction. “That’s what I love about you, sweetheart. Always so damn accommodating.”

It’s punctuated by a sharp snap of his hips and Mickey digs his nails into the meat of his palms as he watches Ian gag at the sudden pressure of Rafe’s cock against the back of his throat. He recovers quick, tilting his head back to take him deeper, and Mickey turns away with a grimace. 

Rationally, he knows walking away and not getting involved in some stranger’s business is the best plan, but Mickey’s never been great at following plans. Running in and beating Rafe unconscious is also extremely tempting, made more so by every moan of _“Deeper”_ and _“Fuckin’ slut”_ he hears from the office, but his desire not to make Ian’s life any worse holds him in place.

And so he stays, listening in horrified disgust as his new boss facefucks his unfortunate boyfriend.

He hopes briefly that Ian might be into it — god knows people have some weird fucking preferences sometimes — but when he glances back into the office, he can’t see so much as a bulge in Ian’s pants as he swallows obediently around Rafe’s cock. Between Rafe’s hands in his hair and the metal wall of the cabinet at his back, Ian has nowhere to go and as Rafe slides in deeper, he barely seems concerned with letting Ian breathe, let alone helping him to get off too.

As blowjobs go, it’s thankfully brief and Mickey fights the urge to vomit when Rafe comes with a guttural grunt. He hauls Ian back off his cock, hand still holding his hair, and jerks himself to completion, painting Ian’s upturned face with streaks of come. 

Ian barely reacts, just closes his eyes as Rafe finishes up, and Mickey honestly can’t tell whether his cheeks are red with shame or just from the slap Rafe gave him earlier.

“Beautiful,” Rafe says mockingly, running his thumb through a smear of come on Ian’s chin. “I always thought you looked much better like this. Shame I can’t make it part of the uniform, hm?”

He nudges his thumb between Ian’s lips and strokes his hair as he says, “Why don’t you have a taste, sweetheart? Wouldn’t want you to miss out.”

Mickey watches in quiet fury as Ian accepts the offered thumb, sucking on it submissively out of what seems to be more habit than preference. 

Above him, Rafe chuckles and finally steps back, tucking his cock away and giving Ian a pat on the cheek, like he’s a pet who just performed a trick. “Good boy. Now clean yourself up and get back to work — I’ll see you at home later.”

Mickey jumps back when Rafe straightens up and turns towards the door, leaving Ian on his knees on the carpet. He scans the hallway, trying to figure out how to get out without being spotted, but he glances back over to the office when he hears Rafe clear his throat. 

Rafe’s gaze finds him through the half-open doorway in the dim light of the hallway. A dark smile crosses his lips and Mickey gulps when Rafe gives him a knowing wink. 

Mickey runs then, not caring about subtlety as he hightails it back out into the club. The thumping beat of the music and the clusters of horny patrons are a welcome change, and Mickey takes a deep breath as he tries to figure out what the hell just happened.

The only conclusion he can reach is that it was definitely nothing good.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - it's been a long week.

Mickey isn’t sure why he goes back to work the next night.

Sure, Scott’s insistence that he do his job and not violate his parole is a compelling reason but it’s the memory of Rafe slapping Ian across the face that tugs at him as he settles in for door duty once again. He hopes briefly that working outside instead of inside the club will give him some space to sort his thoughts out, at least for a couple of hours, but those hopes are quickly dashed when, less than 30 minutes into his shift, he hears a sharp whistle from the alley beside the club.

“Milkovich!”

Rafe is there, with a smile on his lips, a cigarette between his teeth, and no Ian in sight. He beckons for Mickey to join him and Mickey tamps down the confusing anger that’s been roiling inside him since the previous night as he complies. 

The alley is empty and for a second Mickey thinks he’s about to get stabbed before Rafe says calmly, “Glad to see you back at work, Milkovich. I thought we might’ve lost you after last night.”

“What, after your little sex show?” Mickey says with a sneer. “That part of the regular induction here or did I just get lucky?”

Rafe smirks. “You were the one skulking in the shadows,” he points out. “I just thought I should remind you who the bartender belongs to.”

“Right, ‘cause you seem so good together,” Mickey says, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. “Nothing like beating the shit out of your date to get you in the mood, huh?”

Rafe laughs. “That? That was barely a love-tap, Milkovich. You’ll learn soon enough that the whores in this place need a firm hand to keep them in line.”

Mickey whistles. “If he’s a whore, you must be paying real well for him to put up with your shit.”

“I’m sure it’s better compensation than an ex-con could provide,” Rafe says smoothly. 

His smile doesn’t falter and Mickey grits his teeth at the realization that he’s being toyed with, even as Rafe continues, “Now, I’m certainly confident that Ian’s well-trained enough not to stray, but you, Milkovich? From what I hear your whole family is no better than a pack of wild dogs.” 

He exhales, blowing smoke into Mickey’s face as he says, quiet but firm, “So consider this your first and only warning, boy. You keep your hands off what’s mine or I’ll have you put down like the animal you are.”

Mickey spits on the ground at his feet. “Fuck you.”

Rafe grins. “I’m so glad we understand enough other.” He waves a hand dismissively in the direction of the door. “Feel free to get back to work now.”

Mickey narrows his eyes. He knows breaking the jaw of the guy who’s technically his boss is a guaranteed parole violation and a swift trip back to prison but it’s a measure of just how insufferable Rafe is that he considers it for a solid minute before stepping back, hands raised. “All over it.”

“Wonderful,” Rafe says with a nod. “Have an excellent night, Mr Milkovich.”

Rafe doesn’t move away, just watches with cold dark eyes as Mickey strides back down the alley to his position by the door. It’s early enough in the evening that the air is still balmy but Mickey can’t quite stop the shiver that runs through him as he scowls in annoyance. 

Maybe prison would actually be preferable to work.

—————

To prevent himself from strangling Rafe to death in a burst of anger, Mickey decides to maintain distance where possible. He continues to go to work each night as his parole dictates but when Rafe is around (which is most nights — he does own the place, after all), Mickey stays on door duty rather than dealing with overly handsy customers inside the club.

However, while it does mean he gets to avoid Rafe, it also has the side effect of keeping him away from Ian.

The most he sees of the bartender is a glimpse at the start and end of the night as he enters and exits, usually accompanied by Rafe’s hand on his ass or the back of his neck. The bruise over his eye fades more each day without any new visible ones to replace it and while Mickey hopes it means that Rafe has stopped smacking his boyfriend around, he suspects it actually means that he’s just getting better at hiding it. 

Still, Ian is quiet and polite as always, giving Mickey a shy little nod whenever Rafe isn’t looking, and so on the one night Rafe takes off early, Mickey switches to indoor duty in a heartbeat.

It’s a Friday, so the club is even busier than usual, and Mickey barely makes it past the cloakroom before he has to punch a dude in the solar plexus for squeezing his ass. The lights are dim and the music is pounding loud enough that he can barely hear himself think, but he keeps his eyes on the bar as he takes slow circuits, slapping away customers who get too grabby with the dancers.

Ian seems swamped, rushed off his feet by the sheer volume of orders coming in, even with one of the dancers on deck to help him. He’s quick and efficient though, hands moving over the bottles and measures with practised ease, and as Mickey comes to a stop by the bar, he finds himself wondering just how long Ian’s been working here.

“Mickey?”

He jumps at the question and looks around before he realises it came from the guy he’s been staring at. Ian’s still opening bottles of beer but is looking over at him with a soft smile and a confused tilt to his head. 

“Uh, hey,” Mickey says, eloquently.

“Everything okay?” Ian asks. “You don’t usually make it inside.”

“Right.” Mickey’s gaze tracks down Ian’s body of its own volition, moving from the faint blush coloring his cheeks to the soft thin sweater that clings to his torso, but he clears his throat before his eyes can go any lower. “It was getting cold, y’know? Figured it was Darryl’s turn to be freezing his balls off.”

Ian smiles at that as he loads up a tray with beers and sends it off with one of the waitstaff. “Sounds fair.”

“You doing okay?” Mickey asks. “Seems busy in here.”

“It’s Friday,” Ian says with a shrug. “It’ll quieten down eventually.”

His words are drowned out briefly by a chorus of cheers from a rowdy group in the nearest corner and Mickey nods. “I saw the boss take off earlier,” he says, as casually as he can. “I thought he usually sticks around?”

Something unreadable flickers across Ian’s face and when he looks back up at Mickey, his smile is strained. “He’s a busy guy. Sometimes he has more important things to do than hang around some strip club.”

They sound like Rafe’s words rather than Ian’s own and Mickey treats them with the skepticism they deserve. “A strip club that he owns though, right? Where his boyfriend works?”

Ian tenses at that, gripping a vodka bottle tighter as he pours out shots. “I don’t-”

He’s cut off again by more cheers from the corner group, this time accompanied by a chant of “Shots! Shots! Shots!”, and Ian straightens up with a sigh. “Sorry, man, I need to get back to work.”

He scoops the tray up, leaning over to murmur something Mickey can’t hear to the guy helping him tend the bar, and then winds his way through the club towards the table of eager customers. 

Mickey hangs back, definitely not sulking, but his eyes narrow when he sees one of the men slip their hand between Ian’s thighs. 

Ian flinches but holds the tray steady as he sets the shots and a couple of pitchers of beer on the table. However, when the same guy follows up with a sharp swat to his ass, he jerks away hard enough to send the beer sloshing over the side of the jug. 

Mickey’s moving before it can fall, shoving dancers and patrons out of the way with equal force as he yells, “Hey, assholes, hands off!”

If they can hear him above the noise of the club, they don’t pay him any attention and Mickey shoves faster when he sees the beer splatter over one of the guys at the table, who rises to his feet, yelling something Mickey can’t hear. 

Ian holds his hands up, setting the tray down and backing up in apology, but a second guy grabs him by the hair and slams his head down hard against the table.

“-useless fuck!”

Ian cries out, slipping backward to the ground and trying to scramble away. There’s blood on his lip but before Mickey can get there to intervene, the first guy looms over him, holding the still-full pitcher in one hand and gripping Ian’s jaw in the other. “Let’s see how you like it, huh?”

Mickey’s hands close in the back of the guy’s shirt just as he up-ends the pitcher of beer over Ian’s head. It soaks him, splashing across the floor and pouring into Ian’s forced-open mouth as he struggles and chokes, and Mickey hauls the guy off him with as much force as he can while laughter rises up from the rest of the group at the table.

The guy stumbles back, off-balance, and flails at Mickey as he slurs, “Get off me!”

Mickey punches him in the nose and obliges. The force is enough to send the guy staggering backward, falling heavily down the short flight of stairs leading to the dancefloor, and Mickey cracks his knuckles as he rounds on the rest of the table. “The rest of you want to get the fuck out of here or do I get to see how many faces I can break before you change your mind?”

“Hey!” says the guy who slammed Ian against the table. “I don’t know what you think you’re-”

He doesn’t get to finish before Mickey grips his hair and returns the favor, bringing the guy’s head down against the table hard enough to leave a crack in the wood. The guy howls in pain, clutching at his broken nose and letting out some garbled protest, and Mickey kicks him away as he looks to the rest of the group. “That’s one…”

The rest of them scatter like rats, drinks and dignity abandoned as they scurry out of the booth and out into the cold night. One stops to retrieve his buddy with the broken nose but the guy at the bottom of the steps is left for Mickey to haul out the back entrance and dump in the alley with the rest of the trash. 

The cold air is a welcome offset to the heat of anger flowing through him and Mickey rubs his bruised knuckles with satisfaction as he takes a deep breath and heads back inside. 

He blinks when he doesn’t see Ian anywhere near the table and he grabs the nearest dancer by the arm as he asks, “Where’d he go?”

“The bartender?” The dancer gulps nervously. “He- He went out back to clean up. Please don’t punch me?”

With a sigh, Mickey leaves him to the clean-up and shoves his way through the still-partying crowds to get to the back of the club. 

It’s easy enough to follow the trail of beer drops to figure out which way Ian went. Having learned from his last experience sneaking through the hallways, Mickey calls ahead this time as he yells, “Ian? You back here?”

He hears the noise of rushing water and jogs forward into the staff locker room to find Ian’s soaked sweater in a heap on the floor. One of the showers in the corner is running and Mickey crouches down to see Ian’s pale feet beneath the door. “You okay in there, Gallagher?”

Ian lets out a yelp at the question and shuts the shower off a moment later. 

Mickey backs off, taking a seat on the nearest bench, and waits another thirty seconds or so for him to emerge, wrapped in a thin towel that covers him from chest to thigh. “Mickey?”

Mickey’s gaze lingers on the muscle of Ian’s arms and the dusting of freckles that covers his thighs, before he gets his shit together enough to avert his gaze with a cough. “Sorry, man. Just wanted to check you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” Ian says. He shifts self-consciously and his face is pink when he gestures to the locker in front of him. “I just need to…”

“Oh, right.” It’s Mickey’s turn to blush now as he stands and moves to the other side of the room, sitting behind the bank of lockers to give Ian some privacy. “Sorry.”

He hears the rustle of fabric as Ian drops the towel and starts to dress. 

“You can go back out if you want?” Ian offers. “Not that I’m not grateful for the help but I’m fine, man, really.”

“You just got jumped on my watch,” Mickey points out. “Sorry if I want to make sure you’re not dying.”

Ian laughs at that. “No dying, I promise. It was just some beer — I’m fine. Kind of damp, but fine. You stopped them before they could do any real damage.”

“Looks like they did enough,” Mickey says. “Fuckin’ assholes.”

“Occupational hazard,” Ian says, sounding far calmer than he has any right to. “Just wasn’t my lucky night.”

Mickey shakes his head in disbelief. “This shit happen to you a lot?” 

He can’t see him but he swears he can hear Ian shrug. “Goes with the territory. It sucks but it could be a lot worse. I’ll take a beer shower over getting dragged out into an alley and-” He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. “Like I said, could be worse.”

The locker clangs shut and Mickey leans back as he says, still stunned, “You’re real chill about this, Gallagher.”

Ian smiles as he walks around the lockers to take a seat on the bench opposite. He’s dressed again, in too-tight pants and a black t-shirt emblazoned with the club’s name, but aside from the cut on his lip and the darkening mark where his face was slammed into the table, he seems uninjured as he laces up his shoes. “I’ve worked here a while, Mickey. I’ve seen worse.”

Mickey’s eyes lingers on his long fingers but he frowns when he sees the faded marks on Ian’s wrists that were previously covered by his sleeves.

“Yeah? From the customers or from your boyfriend?”

Ian’s head snaps up at that. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Mickey pushes himself to his feet. “Come on, man. I saw that bruise last week. I’m not fuckin’ blind.” He gestures to Ian’s arms. “You saying he didn’t give those to you as well?”

Ian stands quickly, grabbing a jacket from his locker to hide the marks. “Don’t be an idiot, Milkovich.”

“Me? I ain’t the one sleeping with someone whose idea of foreplay is smacking me around.”

“That isn’t what happens!”

“So what does happen?” Mickey asks, moving in front of the door. He’s not about to physically stop Ian if he wants to leave but after weeks of imagining the worst, he has to take what chance he can get. “Is it for fun? Because he’s pissed? What?”

Ian folds his arms across his chest. “Why the fuck is this any of your business?”

“It’s my job, isn’t it?” Mickey says, trying to convince Ian of his reasoning as much as himself. “I’m security — I’m supposed to throw out assholes who are getting violent with the staff. Kind of difficult when the one of those assholes owns the place though.”

Ian shakes his head. “I don’t know what you think is happening here but Rafe’s a good guy.”

Mickey snorts in disbelief but Ian insists, “He is! I know he can come off as overbearing sometimes but he’s just looking out for me. Ever since-” He stops himself, corrects, “He always has done.”

“Ever since what?” Mickey pushes. “He play knight in shining armor one time or something?”

“Or something,” Ian snaps. “He saved my life, okay? I was on the streets and ran into some trouble and he took me in. Gave me food, work, a roof over my head, all without asking for anything in return.” His tone softens slightly, like he’s trying to persuade Mickey instead of arguing with him. “He could’ve just left me for dead in the gutter but instead he gave me all that. He’s a good man, Mickey, no matter what you think of him.”

Mickey hesitates. Ian seems sincere enough that Mickey almost believes it but the memory of Rafe punching his boyfriend in the gut rises up as a reminder.

“I’m glad he helped you,” Mickey says. “I mean it. But from where I’m standing, he sure seems to be getting a hell of a lot in return.”

A pink flush covers Ian’s cheeks. “It wasn’t like that. He never pressured me and he waited until I was eigh- I was ready before he even kissed me.”

Mickey zeroes in on the slip. “Wait, his claim to virtue is not fucking you while you were still a kid?” Ian’s blush darkens to embarrassment and Mickey takes a step back. “How fuckin’ old were you when he took you in?”

“Old enough!”

“Evidently fuckin’ not!” He runs a hand through his hair. “But yeah, other than putting a 12 year old to work pouring drinks for sweaty pervs, Rafe seems like a real great dude.”

“I was fifteen,” Ian counters. “I knew what I was doing, okay? You telling me you kept it in your pants until you were legal?”

“No,” Mickey admits, “but I wasn’t out there getting railed by dudes who were twice my age.” He takes a step towards Ian as he says, “Look, I’m not saying you can’t suck as much wrinkly dick as you want but you get that this is fucked up, right? This dude scoops you up like a fuckin’ pet when you’re a kid and still has you on a leash years later.” 

He sighs, seeing the way Ian curls in on himself in shame. “You can do better, man. Seriously.”

Ian’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes and there’s an emptiness there when he meets Mickey’s stare. “No,” he says simply, “I can’t.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re hotter than most of the dudes out there. And that’s including the ones shaking their ass in spangly thongs.”

“Stop it,” Ian says, jaw clenched. “It’s been a long night, Mickey — I don’t need you making fun of me as well.”

Mickey frowns. “Making fun of what? I’m just calling it like I see it.”

“Hilarious,” Ian says sarcastically, finally stepping around Mickey to get to the door. 

He hesitates in the hallway, glancing back over his shoulder as he says quietly, “Look, I’m grateful for your help back there but just leave me alone, okay? I get enough shit from customers without getting it from my coworkers too.”

“Ian-”

He walks away, letting the door swing shut behind him, and Mickey runs a hand through his hair in confused frustration. 

If the conversation was supposed to make him hate Rafe any less or leave him any less worried about Ian’s well-being, it was a resounding failure on both counts. 

It doesn’t leave him any clearer on his next move though and so while he may be more eager than ever to get Ian out of his shitty situation, he has even less idea of how to accomplish that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a heads up that this is a heavy chapter so as always, please mind the tags <3

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Pacing outside the door, Mickey scrubs a hand through his hair in frustration. The message was bewildering to say the least, a polite text from Rafe asking ( _telling_ ) Mickey to use his night off work to join him and Ian for dinner at their apartment, but when Mickey had checked with Ian at the club, he’d confirmed it was for real.

Mickey knows this has to be some kind of trap — maybe Rafe’s waiting inside with a knife like some kind of horror movie villain — but as he stares at the door of the apartment, he has no idea how to avoid it.

Telling himself to man the fuck up, he squares his shoulders and knocks hard on the door.

There’s a rustle from inside and then a moment later, the door swings open to reveal a smartly dressed Ian. 

“Hey, Mickey.”

Mickey manages a tight smile in return. Things haven’t been the smoothest between them since their argument in the locker room a couple of weeks earlier but while Ian has avoided spending time with him one-on-one, he’s slowly thawed towards him whenever they pass each other in the club. 

Nonetheless, while it’s clear the invitation to dinner was offered by Rafe rather than Ian, Ian doesn’t exactly look upset to have Mickey there as he opens the door wider to welcome him inside. 

“Uh, hi,” Mickey says, stepping in and holding out the cheap bottle of whiskey he picked up on the way over. “My sister told me I was supposed to bring drinks or some shit, so I, uh…”

He gestures vaguely to the whiskey, which Ian takes with a nod of gratitude. “Thank you.”

“So polite of you.” 

Rafe’s voice comes from down the hallway and Mickey shrugs his coat off as he looks over to his host. Rafe’s dressed as smartly as Ian, in a dress shirt that’s unbuttoned a little too far to expose a triangle of tanned chest, and he already has a glass of amber liquid in his hand as he flashes Mickey a smug smile. “You clean up better than I thought, Milkovich.”

Mickey aches to punch him but he resists as Ian presses a similar glass into his own hand. “What can I say,” he says, fixing Rafe with a glare, “I’m full of surprises.”

He takes a big gulp of whiskey, grateful for the liquid courage, and joins Rafe in the lounge as Ian disappears through to what Mickey assumes is the kitchen. The apartment is huge, lavishly decorated rooms looking out over the city, and Mickey notes with satisfaction that his shoes have left muddy tracks on the beige carpet where he entered.

“You want to tell me what the fuck this is about?” he asks when they’re alone, keeping his voice low and out of Ian’s earshot. “Can’t say I’ve seen you inviting strippers over for food on the regular.”

Rafe chuckles, leaning back on the couch. “With good reason.” He wrinkles his nose. “I know where most of them have been.”

“And you know where I’ve been?’

“I know the important parts,” Rafe says, and raises his voice again as Ian comes back in. “Ian tells me you helped him when I was out recently.”

Ian nods, sinking to a seat next to Rafe, but he doesn’t meet Mickey’s eyes as Rafe’s hand comes to rest on his thigh. “Some customers got a little out of control. I was lucky Mickey was there.”

Rafe’s fingers dig into the meat of his thigh for a second and Ian tenses in discomfort as Rafe teases, “I hear he followed you to the showers too. Very thorough, Milkovich.”

“Rafe-” Ian begins, but he bites his lip and stays quiet when Rafe’s fingers dig in again.

“I was just checking he was okay,” Mickey says. (It’s mostly the truth.) “Figured you’d have me killed or something if he passed out from a concussion and drowned.”

Rafe laughs. He slings an arm around Ian’s neck and Mickey’s gaze lingers on Ian as Rafe says, “You’re probably right. But still, everyone’s safe now, and we thought we’d invite you over to show our gratitude.”

Ian’s eyes dart up at that, locking with Mickey’s for a second, and Mickey’s chest tightens at the fear in them. He has no visible injuries for once — the cut on his lip from the assault healed a while ago and if Rafe’s still hitting him, he’s keeping it hidden — but from the way he’s holding himself, he seems to be expecting a slap any second.

Rafe’s knuckles brush the side of Ian’s throat as he prompts, “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Ian nods obediently. “Yeah. We just wanted to say thanks.”

That doesn’t exactly fit with his request for Mickey to leave him alone but Mickey shrugs as he says, “Just doing my job, y’know? It’s no big deal.”

“No need to be modest,” Rafe says with an indulgent smile. “Besides, Ian has a habit of getting himself into trouble. Don’t you, sweetheart?”

Ian’s cheeks darken with embarrassment but before he can answer, something trills from the kitchen. He’s on his feet in a second, clearly desperate for an escape as he stammers, “I-I should go check on that.”

He hurries away and Mickey turns back to Rafe as he says pointedly, “Yeah, he sure seems in trouble, alright. Although from the looks of it, you haven’t punched him in the face for a while, so maybe things are looking up, huh?”

Rafe just laughs, unfazed by the accusation. “Trust me, Milkovich, a quick slap is nothing compared to some of the situations Ian’s found himself in over the years. He’s tougher than he looks.”

“He _looks_ fuckin’ scared,” Mickey retorts. “That why you invited me here? ‘Cause if you wanted to terrorize your boyfriend, I’m pretty sure you don’t need an audience for that.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Rafe says. “I invited you here to enjoy yourself. Consider it a reward for helping Ian.”

“A reward? A couple of weeks ago you were threatening to kill me if I even looked at your boy twice and now you’re asking me to dinner?” He shakes his head. “What the fuck is your game here, asshole?”

Rafe’s smile doesn’t falter as he takes another sip of his drink. “I’m sure you’ve heard the saying about keeping your friends close and enemies closer.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’m your enemy now? I’m just a guy who works security.”

Rafe gives a skeptical hum. Mickey wants to throttle him.

“Why don’t you go clean up?” Rafe says. “Ian should have the food ready soon. Bathroom is the second door on the right.”

It’s a clear dismissal, reinforced by the clatter of plates from the kitchen, and Mickey downs the rest of his drink before striding down the hallway to the bathroom. 

He does a double-take when the door swings open to a bedroom, and yells back to Rafe, “Wrong room here.”

“Sorry,” Rafe calls, sounding anything but, “I meant second on the left.”

The slip was clearly intentional but as Mickey lingers in the door of the bedroom, it apparently had the desired effect. The soft sheets and dark wood furnishing look expensive enough but it’s the small box poking out under one corner of the bed that catches his eye. He doesn’t know what half the toys in there are for but the things he recognizes — plugs, handcuffs, a paddle, a collar — tell him way more about Rafe and Ian’s sex life than he ever wanted to know.

Grossed out, he turns to leave but pauses at the sight of the large artsy photograph on the wall beside him. It’s a close-up profile of the face of a man, a dark blindfold tied across his eyes and a gag between his lips, and even with the brightness of his hair concealed by the black and white photo, Mickey can still recognize Ian in the shot. There are tears running down his cheek, glinting in the light, but the angle is close enough that everything happening from his neck downward is left only to his imagination.

Mickey’s stomach turns. He can’t read enough of Ian’s expression to know what the picture’s capturing but it makes his skin crawl anyway, and he’s hit with a fresh wave of sympathy for the guy.

Retreating, he heads through to the actual bathroom this time to clean up. When he returns, it’s to find the lounge empty and Rafe seated at a table by the kitchen while Ian busies himself with pots on the stove.

“Take a seat, Milkovich,” Rafe says. “I can’t guarantee Ian’s cooking will be decent but he does his best.”

Ian ducks his head in embarrassment as he sets the plates in front of Mickey and Rafe, then carries across dishes of potatoes, vegetables and sauce to the table. The chicken on his plate looks way better than most meals Mickey’s eaten in his life and he looks up at Ian in appreciation. “Looks great, man. My cooking’s mostly limited to pizza rolls and shit I can microwave.”

Ian takes his seat and silence descends for a moment as they all fill their plates. Mickey frowns when Rafe’s fork clinks against his wine glass but his frown deepens when Ian immediately sets his serving spoon down at the noise.

They dig in and Mickey abandons any attempts at dignity when he lets out a delighted groan at the taste. “Shit, this is good.” He nudges Ian with his elbow. “Fuck ‘decent’, dude, you’re a great cook.”

Ian manages a fleeting smile. “Thanks.”

Mickey frowns as he looks over at the tiny portion on Ian’s plate. “You eat too much while you were cooking or something?”

Ian tilts his head. “Huh?”

“That’s nothing,” Mickey points out. “My kid nephew could put away more than that and he’s, like, four. You want me to pass you more potatoes or something?”

Ian’s eyes dart to the other side of the table and it’s Rafe who answers, “He’s good at knowing his limits.” Rafe’s smile is broad and easy, a stark contrast to the fear that is pouring off Ian. “Some people are just unlucky with their metabolism, I suppose. Even with his workouts, he needs to be careful how much he eats.” He chuckles. “I can live with a plain-looking bartender but I’d at least prefer to have one who’s in shape.”

Mickey looks between the two of them in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? You control what he fuckin’ eats?”

“Mickey-” Ian starts but Rafe cuts in, unperturbed.

“Of course not,” he says with a smirk. “Ian’s a grown man, he can feed himself. I just provide advice, like any loving boyfriend would.”

“What, advice that he should starve himself?”

“Mickey,” Ian pleads. “Don’t.”

Tension hangs heavy for a minute, in which Mickey strongly considers jamming his knife through Rafe’s skull, but Ian’s plea has the desired effect as he digs his knife into the chicken instead. 

“Plain-looking bartender, huh?” Mickey says. “Can’t wait to meet them at some point. I’ve only seen Ian working the bar there so far.”

It’s accompanied by a wink in Ian’s direction but Ian just goes pink and focuses back on his plate.

The silence that follows is long and painful enough that Mickey wonders if that was actually Rafe’s goal, inviting him here just to torture him with excruciating awkwardness. He keeps eating though, pausing occasionally for attempts at small-talk, and as he finishes up, he watches in disgust as Rafe cups the back of Ian’s neck and pulls him in for a rough kiss. 

Ian lets out a muffled protest, clearly self-conscious about the audience, but Rafe just laughs, biting down on Ian’s lower lip before pulling back with a sigh. “Why don’t you wash up, sweetheart? Let me talk to Mr Milkovich for a second.”

Ian nods, clearing the plates from the table as Rafe rises and beckons Mickey to follow him out to the lounge. 

“I can help if you want?” Mickey says, more to Ian than to Rafe as he hesitates.

“Nonsense,” Rafe answers. “You’re our guest. Besides, Ian’s quite the good little maid when he puts his mind to it.”

He lands a sharp swat to Ian’s ass as he walks past, almost enough to make him drop the dishes, and Mickey grits his teeth in annoyance as he follows Rafe back out of the kitchen and out of range of Ian’s hearing. 

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” he snaps. “Why the fuck are you even with him if you don’t give a shit about him?”

Rafe just shrugs and keeps his voice low when he says, “You underestimate the importance of convenience, Milkovich. You may still be some lovestruck kid, but I’m not. I can see a partner for what they’re worth — a clean house, cooked meals, a hole to fuck whenever I want. I treat Ian exactly as he deserves — no better and no worse.”

“You’re a piece of shit,” Mickey says, glad for the opportunity to finally get up in Rafe’s space. “He’s a nice guy, he doesn’t deserve this.”

Rafe smiles. “I think he’d disagree with you there.”

“Because you fucking brainwashed him! Or groomed him or… whatever this shit is.”

“Relationships take work,” Rafe says coolly. “Let’s just say I’ve put the work in here.”

Mickey glares up at him. “So that’s why you brought me here? Show off how much you’ve got him under your thumb?”

“Partly,” Rafe admits, stepping back and pouring himself another whiskey. “I heard you’d ‘helped’ him at the club and so I figured a clearer demonstration of our relative worth might be beneficial.” He moves in again, towering over Mickey as he says, “I’ll make it crystal clear for you, Milkovich. I own him. Whatever you’re trying to pull, however close you think you’re getting, I need you to remember that he’s mine. Always will be.”

His lips curve in a dark smile and when he leans in, Mickey thinks for one horrifying moment that he’s going to kiss him.

“I’m not entirely unreasonable though,” Rafe says, dark eyes shining with excitement. “You did help him out and you do deserve a reward — I wasn’t lying about that. Besides, sometimes I’m willing to share.”

Mickey furrows his brow in confusion but before he can ask what the fuck he means, Rafe backs off again with a sharp whistle. 

It’s like he’s calling a dog but on cue, the clatter of dishes from the kitchen stops and Ian comes hurrying through to Rafe’s side. 

“Good boy,” Rafe says fondly, running a hand through Ian’s hair and pulling him in for a possessive kiss. 

His hand roams down over his body, groping his ass greedily, before he tugs Ian around to face Mickey. With Rafe’s hand gripping the back of his hair, Ian can’t even lower his head and he struggles to keep his footing when Rafe presents him like an offering to Mickey.

“You’re grateful to Mr Milkovich for his help the other week, aren’t you, baby?”

Ian nods as much as the grip on his hair allows. “Y-Yes.” He swallows, not meeting Mickey’s eyes. “Thank you, Mickey.”

Rafe tuts. “I think you can show your appreciation in a better way than that, sweetheart.” 

It’s accompanied by a kick to Ian’s back and he stumbles forward towards Mickey. While he does look painfully embarrassed, he doesn’t seem surprised by this but Mickey has no idea whether that’s because Rafe warned him ahead of time or because this is a regular occurrence.

Frozen in mute horror, Mickey can’t do anything but stand there as Ian sinks to his knees in front of him. 

He looks up at him in submission, even despite the humiliation written all over his face, and when Rafe clicks his tongue behind him, Ian leans in to press a kiss to Mickey’s cock through his jeans.

“What the-”

Rafe just laughs as Ian buries his face in his crotch, lapping obediently at the growing bulge of Mickey’s dick. He drops to a seat on the couch, whiskey still in hand, as he says, “He’s all yours, Milkovich. For the night, at least. And don’t worry about going easy on him — he can take it.”

Despite himself, Mickey’s cock twitches to attention under the steady pressure of Ian’s mouth but any arousal is more than outweighed by disgust at the situation. 

He steps back sharply, almost causing Ian to overbalance, and he looks between the two of them in horror as he says, “This is sick. I- I don’t want-”

“To shove your dick down his throat?” Rafe says, amused. “Could’ve fooled me.” Ian doesn’t move from his knees, docile and silent, as Rafe taunts, “This is a one-time offer, Milkovich. You get him under my supervision or you don’t get him at all.”

“He’s not a fuckin’ whore!”

“He’s whatever I fucking tell him to be,” Rafe snaps. “You know that as well as I do.” He calms, taking another sip of his drink as he says, “I’m not here to hold your hand through some moral crisis, Milkovich. Either fuck him or get the fuck out.”

Mickey hesitates. It’s not like he hasn’t fantasized about Ian sucking his dick dozens of times but never like this, and the thought makes him want to throw up rather than continue.

“Fuck you,” he says, moving back in the direction of the door. “You fuckin’ perv.”

Rafe just shrugs. “Your loss.”

Mickey pauses again, hand on the door, and looks back to Ian this time as he pleads, “You don’t need to do this, man. I know you think I’m just some asshole you work with, and okay, yeah, I kind of am, but you don’t deserve this shit.”

Ian doesn’t look up at him, doesn’t even move from his knees, and Mickey tries one last time. “You don’t need to stay with him.” 

Rafe laughs but Mickey pushes on, “Sure, he’s a rich fuck but you don’t need him. You got other people who can help you until you get back on your feet.”

“What, like you?” Rafe mocks. “An idiot felon who can barely keep a job?”

Mickey’s cheeks heat but he retorts anyway, “Did I look like I was talking to you, dickwad? But yeah,” he says, looking back to Ian, “I can help you if you want me to.”

Ian doesn’t respond, still kneeling hunched in the middle of the room, and Mickey sighs as he pulls the door open. 

He flips Rafe off one last time as he says with venom, “Fuck you.”

He slams the door closed behind him, hard enough to make the light fittings shake, and he lands a solid punch to the wall before jogging down the stairs, shaking his aching hand. For all his panicked expectations after receiving the invite to dinner, a gross threesome didn’t even make the list and he stares up at Rafe’s window in frustration when he makes it outside into the cold. 

He knows turning down Ian’s advances was definitely the right call but he’s still not sure whether leaving him alone with Rafe was a good decision.

————

Mickey’s woken about six hours later by a knock on his door.

It took him far too long to fall asleep, still wired with anger and frustration from Rafe’s stunt, but after working out some of his feelings on a punching bag with a crudely drawn face on it, he finally fell into a restless sleep just after midnight.

As such, he’s not especially happy at being woken up at 3am and he curses under his breath as he stomps to the door, “Iggy, if you need me to hide another fuckin’ stolen car, I swear to-”

The door swings open and Mickey’s complaint dies on his tongue.

Of all the people he expected to see at his door, Ian absolutely wasn’t one of them. He’s beat to shit, bloody and bruised and barely conscious as he leans against the doorjamb for support.

“I’m sorry-” Ian begins at the same time as Mickey asks, “Ian? What the hell happ-”

Before either of them can finish, Ian’s attempts at staying upright fail him and Mickey scrambles to catch him as he passes out. 

“Fuck, fuck-”

He manages to take the brunt of Ian’s weight before he hits the floor and as Mickey sinks down to the ground with him, looking at the injuries littering what he can see of Ian’s body, he revises his earlier opinion. 

Leaving Ian alone with Rafe was an incredibly bad decision.


End file.
